


The Pit of Depression

by Alya_Selene



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 04:10:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17093777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alya_Selene/pseuds/Alya_Selene
Summary: Harry is not feeling well after the Battle of Hogwarts. He feels empty and wonders about the meaning of his life.





	The Pit of Depression

**Author's Note:**

> This is very sad and dark. I wouldn't recommend it for someone who is having troubles in his life, but I hope you'll enjoy it.

Since the end of the war, Harry had only been the shadow of himself. Between the trials, the interviews and the funerals, the Savior of the Wizarding World didn't have the time to care about himself, to grieve in peace. There were times when he couldn't get out of bed. He felt lifeless, meaningless. How many times had he thought “If I were to die right now, who would even notice?” He could spend days without eating, showering, going out.

Darkness had become his only friend. Ron and Hermione were happy together. They had been worried at first, then, like the others, they had stopped caring, stopped coming to see if he was alive. Ginny and him, how could it have been a thing? When had he stopped seeing her as a sister, as his best friend's sister? He didn't even like girls. Or did he? Those things seemed foolish to him. Who the hell was he? As if it was easy to answer to this question. He had been given so many names. Harry. Harry Potter. Freak. The Boy-Who-Lived. Potter. Saint Potter. The Savior of the Wizarding World. But who was he in the end? Was he even one of them? How he wished to wake up in his cupboard under the stairs again. To be eleven, to be innocent, oblivious to the world around him, to this weight, this responsibility crushing him. He wanted to wake up and discover that everything had been a nightmare, that his whole life was not real, that they were all alive, waiting for him to wake up.

He had started to drink, too much but never enough to forget. He could not sleep. Their faces were haunting him, waiting for him to close his eyes to appear, as if to make sure he would never forget them. Then, there had been the drugs. Sometimes he found himself laughing at his situation. Being who he was, he knew he could not buy them on the streets or _The Daily Prophet_ would have made it the front page of a special edition. “The Savior, a junkie?” The only thing he could do was make his own drugs, his own potions. Snape would have a heart attack knowing this if he wasn't already dead.

There were times when he thought about those he had lost, those he had failed to save. When it happened, he would sit on his bed, with no lights on. He would stare at a point he could not see for hours and hours, thinking about them, about their death and his useless presence on Earth. How life was unfair. Or was it death? When you wished for one, it was always the other who came. Snape used to say that life wasn't fair. How he wished he had listened to him. Maybe that if he had, some people would still be there.

Alone in Grimmauld Place, he would spend days in Sirius' old bedroom, knowing that the man had died because of him, because he had been stupid enough to not see that it was a trap. He could not forgive himself for sending his godfather to his death. If he had trusted Snape, nothing would have happened. And Remus, poor Remus. The lone wolf who had found a woman to love, with who he had a child, little Teddy. But because Harry had been a coward, because he could not face Voldemort alone, he was now dead and his son would never know his parents. And Fred, George's other half, his brother in everything but blood. Fred, always a smile on his lips, had died as he had lived, smiling. When he thought about him, the missing twin, he would always laugh then break down in tears, unable to bear the thought that he had killed him. It should have been his fight and his fight alone. No one should have died this night, no one except him and Voldemort.

There were times like this when everything hurt and there was nothing for him to hold onto. He could not climb to escape from the pit his life had become. How had it come down to this? When he was somehow feeling better, Harry would wonder when he had stopped living and started surviving instead. When he had the chance to see a sunray between the heavy dark clouds, he would try to find the courage to go out and talk to someone about this. But who would listen to him? Who cared about the Boy-Who-Lived? His friends – could he still call them friends? - would only tell him that he was making things up. Ron would tell him that now that the war was over no one was paying attention to him and he could not bear it. These thoughts made him wonder if he was just an attention seeker like Ron would say or if there really was something wrong with him. But these moments of peace never lasted long, only a few hours, a day if he was lucky enough. But when those moments happened, he could not find it in him to ask for help. Hell, he didn't even know if he wanted help! He was mad because he didn't even know what he wanted. Should he reach out for help? But who would grab his hand and help him to get out of this endless pit of darkness that were his thoughts?

There was no one. No one was waiting out there for him. Who would care if he were to disappear? Who would notice? Who would even care? Would he be missed? No, he wouldn't. If someone had cared about him, they would have been worried about him, not seeing him for weeks, months, or however long it had been since he had last left his flat. No, Harry had no friends, no one he could rely on. In fact, he had always been on his own when he needed help the most. Who had been there when he was starved and beaten by his aunt and uncle? Who had been there when he had to fight against Quirrell when he was eleven? Who had been there when he had to fight against a Basilisk and save Ginny when he was twelve? Who had been there when he had to face hundreds of Dementors when he was thirteen? Who had been there when he had to fight against Voldemort and bring back Cedric's dead body when he was fourteen? Who had been there when he had lost his godfather? Who had been there when he had to watch Dumbledore die right before his eyes? Who had been there when he had to walk to his death in the Forbidden Forest? No one had been there, no one except the ones who had already died. Only them had truly been there for him. It might seem selfish to some but he had always been on his own. His only companions were those he had loved and lost, the ghosts of a past life he had lived. A far away place he had known, a distant memory of love blurred by the time that had passed. Each loss he had suffered of was a piece of his heart lost in the void of death. If he could turn back the clock he would make sure that all those he had lost were safe and sound. He would climb every mountain and swim every ocean to see them again, to fix what he had broken. But laying in his bed, hearing the ticking of the clock, he knew that he would not be able to turn back time and have his loved ones back.

He was still alone. His parents had died because of him, because he had to be the child of this damn prophecy. Quirrell had died because he had touched him. While the man was possessed by Voldemort, he was maybe not a dark wizard. Maybe that he had a family. A wife. Kids. Maybe that he had killed a father, deprived kids from their father. The Basilisk was maybe aggressive but it had been controled by Voldemort. He might have saved Sirius and Buckbeak during his third year but, somehow, because of him, Remus' lycanthropy had been unveiled for all to see, for all to know. After this, how many had died to protect him, because he was a coward? How many could have been saved? How many graves should not have been dug? How many families would have been spared?

Sometimes he would lie in bed and think about the mirror of Erised, about what he had seen in this mirror when he was eleven. Back then, he would only see himself with his parents. But now? Now he was sure that he would see all those he had lost, all of them, waiting for him. Without them he felt crushed by the emptiness of his life, the void it had become.

It was then that Harry knew what he had to do. There was nothing waiting for him in this world, on this Earth. He had stopped using magic after the Battle of Hogwarts, after he had killed Voldemort. He knew that if he was to fall on his knees, no one would rescue him. If he was to drown in the sea, no one would come for him. He had killed with his powers, he was a criminal, a murderer everyone saw as a hero.

He had been lost in his mind for so long, in this endless pit. But now, he could see the light coming from under his feet. He knew what he had to do to be happy once and for all.

This is with this thought in his mind that he filled the bathtub with boiling-hot water. He took off his clothes and stepped in the hot bath. This was his destiny, how it was meant to end. He couldn't hold on anymore. He grabbed the razor and sliced his wrists then his throat. He watched the water turn pink then red as he suffocated, blood pouring out of his veins, out of his body, like a river, a waterfall. A waterfall of blood. He closed his eyes, feeling numb, dying.

When he opened them again, he was in a place which could be nothing but home. It was new to him and yet it seemed so familiar. They were all there as he had thought, waiting for him. Snape was the first to walk up to him. He seemed younger, healthier. “Here you are, brat. We have been waiting for you.” He walked away, his cloak billowing behind him as they had always done when he was alive. They all greated him and he discovered that he had been right. He was finally happy. His parents laid their hands on his shoulders and smiled at him. “Welcome home.”

 


End file.
